Part 3—Chapter XV.
I am unsettled by unexpected Intelligence, and again yearn after the World of Fashion.
I knew that he was mocking me in this reply, but I paid no attention to that; I was satisfied that he consented. I now made him assist me, and under my directions he made up the prescriptions. I explained to him the nature of every medicine; and I made him read many books of physic and surgery. In short, after two or three months, I could trust to Timothy as well as if I were in the shop myself; and having an errand boy, I had much more leisure, and I left him in charge after dinner. The business prospered, and I was laying up money. My leisure time, I hardly need say, was spent with Mr Cophagus and his family, and my attachment to Susannah Temple increased every day. Indeed, both Mr and Mrs Cophagus considered that it was to be a match, and often joked with me when Susannah was not present. With respect to Susannah, I could not perceive that I was farther advanced in her affections than after I had known her two months. She was always kind and considerate, evidently interested in my welfare, always checking in me anything like levity—frank and confiding in her opinions—and charitable to all, as I thought, except to me. But I made no advance that I could perceive. The fact was, that I dared not speak to her as I might have done to another who was not so perfect. And yet she smiled, as I thought, more kindly when I returned than at other times, and never appeared to be tired of my company. If I did sometimes mention the marriage of another, or attentions paid which would, in all probability, end in marriage, it would create no confusion or blushing on her part; she would talk over that subject as composedly as any other. I was puzzled; and I had been a year and nine months constantly in her company, and had never dared to tell her that I loved her. But one day Mr Cophagus brought up the subject when we were alone. He commenced by stating how happy he had been as a married man; that he had given up all hopes of a family, and that he should like to see Susannah Temple, his sister-in-law, well married, that he might leave his property to her children; and then he put the very pertinent question—“Japhet—verily—thou hast done well—good business—money coming in fast—settle, Japhet—marry—have children—and so on. Susannah—nice girl—good wife—pop question—all right—sly puss—won’t say no—um—what d’ye say?—and so on.” I replied that I was very much attached to Susannah; but that I was afraid that the attachment was not mutual, and therefore hesitated to propose. Cophagus then said that he would make his wife sound his sister, and let me know the result.
This was in the morning just before I was about to walk over to the shop, and I left the house in a state of anxiety and suspense. When I arrived at the shop, I found Tim there as usual; but the colour in his face was heightened as he said to me, “Read this, Japhet,” and handed to me the “Reading Mercury.” I read an advertisement as follows:—
“If Japhet Newland, who was left at the Foundling Asylum, and was afterwards for some time in London, will call at Number 16, Throgmorton Court, Minories, he will hear of something very much to his advantage, and will discover that of which he has been so long in search. Should this reach his eye, he is requested to write immediately to the above address, with full particulars of his situation. Should anyone who reads this be able to give any information relative to the said J.N., he will be liberally rewarded.”
I sank down on the chair. “Merciful Heaven! this can be no mistake—‘he will discover the object of his search.’ Timothy, my dear Timothy, I have at last found out my father.”
“So I should imagine, my dear Japhet,” replied Timothy, “and I trust it will not prove a disappointment.”
“They never would be so cruel, Timothy,” replied I.
“But still it is evident that Mr Masterton is concerned in it,” observed Timothy.
“Why so?” inquired I.
“How otherwise should it appear in the Reading newspaper? He must have examined the post-mark of my letter.”
To explain this, I must remind the reader that Timothy had promised to write to Mr Masterton when he found me; and he requested my permission shortly after we had met again. I consented to his keeping his word, but restricted him to saying any more than “that he had found me, and that I was well and happy.” There was no address in the letter as a clue to Mr Masterton as to where I might be, and it could only have been from the post-mark that he could have formed any idea. Timothy’s surmise was therefore very probable; but I would not believe that Mr Masterton would consent to the insertion of that portion of the advertisement, if there was no foundation for it.
“What will you do, Japhet?”
“Do,” replied I, recovering from my reverie, for the information had again roused up all my dormant feelings—“Do,” replied I, “why, I shall set off for town this very morning.”
“In that dress, Japhet?”
“I suppose I must,” replied I, “for I have no time to procure another;” and all my former ideas of fashion and appearance were roused, and in full activity—my pride recovered its ascendency.
“Well,” replied Timothy, “I hope you will find your father all that you could wish.”
“I’m sure of it, Tim—I’m sure of it,” replied I; “you must run and take a place in the first coach.”
“But you are not going without seeing Mr and Mrs Cophagus, and—Miss Temple,” continued Tim, laying an emphasis upon the latter name.
“Of course not,” replied I, colouring deeply. “I will go at once. Give me the newspaper, Tim.”
I took the newspaper, and hastened to the house of Mr Cophagus. I found them all three sitting in the breakfast parlour, Mr Cophagus, as usual, reading, with his spectacles on his nose, and the ladies at work.
“What is the matter, friend Japhet?” exclaimed Mr Cophagus, as I burst into the room, my countenance lighted up with excitement.
“Read that, sir,” said I to Mr Cophagus.
Mr Cophagus read it. “Hum—bad news—lose Japhet—man of fashion—and so on,” said Cophagus, pointing out the paragraph to his wife, as he handed over the paper.
In the mean time I watched the countenance of Susannah—a slight emotion, but instantly checked, was visible at Mr Cophagus’s remark. She then remained quiet until her sister, who had read the paragraph, handed the paper to her. “I give thee joy, Japhet, at the prospect of finding out thy parent,” said Mrs Cophagus. “I trust thou wilt find in him one who is to be esteemed as a man. When departest thou?”
“Immediately,” replied I.
“I cannot blame thee—the ties of nature are ever powerful. I trust that thou wilt write to us, and that we soon shall see thee return.”
“Yes, yes,” said Cophagus, “see father—shake hands—come back—heh!—settle here—and so on.”
“I shall not be altogether my own master, perhaps,” observed I. “If my father desires that I remain with him, must not I obey? But I know nothing at present. You shall hear from me. Timothy can take my place in the—” I could not bear the idea of the word shop, and I stopped. Susannah, for the first time, looked me earnestly in the face, but she said nothing. Mr and Mrs Cophagus, who probably had been talking over the subject of our conversation, and thought this a good opportunity to allow me to have an éclaircissement with Susannah, left the room, saying they would look after my portmanteau and linen. “Susannah,” said I, “you do not appear to rejoice with me.”
“Japhet Newland, I will rejoice at everything that may tend to thy happiness, believe me; but I do not feel assured but that this trial may prove too great, and that thou mayst fall away. Indeed, I perceive even now that thou art excited with new ideas, and visions of pride.”
“If I am wrong, forgive me. Susannah, you must know that the whole object of my existence has been to find my father; and now that I have every reason to suppose that my wish is obtained, can you be surprised, or can you blame me, that I long to be pressed in his arms?”
“Nay, Japhet, for that filial feeling I do commend thee; but ask thy own heart, is that the only feeling which now exciteth thee? Dost thou not expect to find thy father one high in rank and power? Dost thou not anticipate to join once more the world which thou hast quitted, yet still hast sighed for? Dost thou not already feel contempt for thy honest profession:—nay, more, dost thou not only long to cast off the plain attire, and not only the attire, but the sect which in thy adversity thou didst embrace the tenets of? Ask thy own heart, and reply if thou wilt, but I press thee not so to do; for the truth would be painful, and a lie thou knowest, I do utterly abhor.”
I felt that Susannah spoke the truth, and I would not deny it. I sat down by her. “Susannah,” said I, “it is not very easy to change at once. I have mixed for years in the world, with you I have not yet lived two. I will not deny but that the feelings you have expressed have risen in my heart, but I will try to repress them; at least, for your sake, Susannah, I would try to repress them, for I value your opinion more than that of the whole world. You have the power to do with me as you please:—will you exert that power?”
“Japhet,” replied Susannah, “the faith which is not built upon a more solid foundation than to win the favour of an erring being like myself is but weak; that power over thee, which thou expectest will fix thee in the right path, may soon be lost, and what is then to direct thee? If no purer motives than earthly affection are to be thy stay, most surely thou wilt fall. But no more of this; thou hast a duty to perform, which is to go to thy earthly father, and seek his blessing. Nay, more, I would that thou shouldst once more enter into the world, there thou mayst decide. Shouldst thou return to us, thy friends will rejoice, and not one of them will be more joyful than Susannah Temple. Fare thee well, Japhet, mayst thou prove superior to temptation. I will pray for thee—earnestly I will pray for thee, Japhet,” continued Susannah, with a quivering of her lips and broken voice, and she left the room.
Part 3—Chapter XVI.
I return to London, and meet with Mr Masterton.
I went up stairs, and found that all was ready, and I took leave of Mr and Mrs Cophagus, both of whom expressed their hopes that I would not leave them for ever. “Oh, no,” replied I, “I should indeed be base, if I did.” I left them, and with Ephraim following with my portmanteau, I quitted the house. I had gone about twenty yards, when I recollected that I had left on the table the newspaper with the advertisement containing the direction whom to apply to, and, desiring Ephraim to proceed, I returned. When I entered the parlour, Susannah Temple was resting her face in her hands and weeping. The opening of the door made her start up; she perceived that it was I, and she turned away. “I beg your pardon, I left the newspaper,” said I, stammering. I was about to throw myself at her feet, declare my sincere affection, and give up all idea of finding my father until we were married, when she, without saying a word, passed quickly by me, and hastened out of the room. “She loves me, then,” thought I; “thank God:—I will not go yet, I will speak to her first.” I sat down, quite overpowered with contending feelings. The paper was in my hand, the paragraph was again read; I thought but of my father, and I left the house.
In half an hour I had shaken hands with Timothy and quitted the town of Reading. How I arrived in London, that is to say, what passed, or what we passed, I know not: my mind was in such a state of excitement. I hardly know how to express the state that I was in. It was a sort of mental whirling which blinded me—round and round—from my father and the expected meeting, then to Susannah, my departure, and her tears—castle building of every description. After the coach stopped, there I remained fixed on the top of it, not aware that we were in London, until the coachman asked me whether the spirit did not move me to get down. I recollected myself, and calling a hackney-coach, gave orders to be driven to the Piazza, Covent Garden.
“Piazza, Common Garden,” said the waterman; “why that ban’t an ’otel for the like o’ you, master. They’ll torment you to death, them young chaps.”
I had forgotten that I was dressed as a Quaker. “Tell the coachman to stop at the first cloth warehouse where they have ready-made cloaks,” said I. The man did so; I went out and purchased a roquelaure, which enveloped my whole person. I then stopped at a hatter’s, and purchased a hat according to the mode. “Now drive to the Piazza,” said I, entering the coach. I know not why, but I was resolved to go to that hotel. It was the one I had stayed at when I first arrived in London, and I wished to see it again. When the hackney-coach stopped, I asked the waiter who came out whether he had apartments, and answering me in the affirmative, I followed him, and was shown into the same rooms I had previously occupied. “These will do,” said I, “now let me have something to eat, and send for a good tailor.” The waiter offered to remove my cloak, but I refused, saying that I was cold. He left the room, and I threw myself on the sofa, running over all the scenes which had passed in that room with Carbonnell, Harcourt, and others. My thoughts were broken in upon by the arrival of the tailor. “Stop a moment,” said I, “and let him come in when I ring.” So ashamed was I of my Quaker’s dress, that I threw off my coat and waistcoat, and put on my cloak again before I rang the bell for the tailor to come up. “Mr —,” said I, “I must have a suit of clothes ready by to-morrow at ten o’clock.”
“Impossible, sir.”
“Impossible!” said I, “and you pretend to be a fashionable tailor. Leave the room.”
At this peremptory behaviour, the tailor imagined that I must be somebody.
“I will do my possible, sir, and if I can only get home in time to stop the workmen, I think it may be managed. Of course, you are aware of the expense of night work.”
“I am only aware of this, that if I give an order, I am accustomed to have it obeyed; I learnt that from my poor friend, Major Carbonnell.”
The tailor bowed low; there was magic in the name, although the man was dead.
“Here have I been masquerading in a Quaker’s dress, to please a puritanical young lady, and I am obliged to be off without any other clothes in my portmanteau; so take my measure, and I expect the clothes at ten precisely.” So saying, I threw off my roquelaure, and desired him to proceed. This accomplished, the tradesman took his leave. Shortly afterwards, the door opened, and as I lay wrapped up in my cloak on the sofa, in came the landlord and two waiters, each bearing a dish of my supper. I wished them at the devil; but I was still more surprised when the landlord made a low bow, saying, “Happy to see you returned, Mr Newland; you’ve been away some time—another grand tour, I presume.”
“Yes, Mr —, I have had a few adventures since I was last here,” replied I, carelessly, “but I am not very well. You may leave the supper, and if I feel inclined, I will take a little by-and-by,—no one need wait.”
The landlord and waiter bowed and went out of the room. I turned the key of the door, put on my Quaker’s coat, and made a hearty supper, for I had had nothing since breakfast. When I had finished, I returned to the sofa, and I could not help analysing my own conduct. “Alas,” thought I, “Susannah, how rightly did you judge me! I am not away from you more than eighteen hours, and here I am ashamed of the dress which I have so long worn, and been satisfied with, in your society. Truly did you say that I was full of pride, and would joyfully re-enter the world of vanity and vexation.” And I thought of Susannah, and her tears after my supposed departure, and I felt angry and annoyed at my want of strength of mind and my worldly feelings.
I retired early to bed, and did not wake until late the next morning. When I rang the bell, the chambermaid brought in my clothes from the tailor’s: I dressed, and I will not deny that I was pleased with the alteration. After breakfast I ordered a coach, and drove to Number 16, Throgmorton Court, Minories. The house was dirty outside, and the windows had not been cleaned apparently for years, and it was with some difficulty when I went in that I could decypher a tall, haggard-looking man seated at the desk.
“Your pleasure, sir?” said he.
“Am I speaking to the principal?” replied I.
“Yes, sir, my name is Chatfield.”
“I come to you, sir, relative to an advertisement which appeared in the papers. I refer to this,” continued I, putting the newspaper down on the desk, and pointing to the advertisement.
“Oh, yes, very true: can you give us any information?”
“Yes, sir, I can, and the most satisfactory.”
“Then, sir, I am sorry that you have had so much trouble, but you must call at Lincoln’s Inn upon a lawyer of the name of Masterton—the whole affair is now in his hands.”
“Can you, sir, inform me who is the party that is inquiring after this young man?”
“Why, yes; it is a General De Benyon, who has lately returned from the East Indies.”
“Good God! is it possible?” thought I; “how strange that my own wild fancy should have settled upon him as my father!”
I hurried away; threw myself into the hackney-coach, and desired the man to drive to Lincoln’s Inn. I hastened up to Mr Masterton’s rooms: he was fortunately at home, although he stood at the table with his hat and his great coat on, ready to go out.
“My dear sir, have you forgotten me?” said I, in a voice choked with emotion, taking his hand and squeezing it with rapture.
“By heavens, you are determined that I shall not forget you for some minutes, at least,” exclaimed he, wringing his hand with pain. “Who the devil are you?”
Mr Masterton could not see without his spectacles, and my subdued voice he had not recognised. He pulled them out, as I made no reply, and fixing them across his nose—“Hah! why yes—it is Japhet, is it not?”
“It is indeed, sir,” said I, again offering my hand, which he shook warmly.
“Not quite so hard, my dear fellow, this time,” said the old lawyer; “I acknowledge your vigour, and that is sufficient. I am very glad to see you; Japhet, I am indeed—you—you scamp—you ungrateful fellow. Sit down—sit down—first help me off with my great coat: I presume the advertisement has brought you into existence again. Well, it’s all true; and you have at last found your father, or, rather, he has found you. And what’s more strange, you hit upon the right person; that is strange—very strange indeed.”
“Where is he, sir?” interrupted I, “where is he—take me to him.”
“No, rather be excused,” replied Mr Masterton, “for he is gone to Ireland, so you must wait.”
“Wait, sir, oh no—I must follow him.”
“That will only do harm; for he is rather a queer sort of an old gentleman, and although he acknowledges that he left you as Japhet and has searched for you, yet he is so afraid of somebody else’s brat being put upon him, that he insists upon most undeniable proofs. Now, we cannot trace you from the hospital unless we can find that fellow Cophagus, and we have made every search after him, and no one can tell where he is.”
“But I left him but yesterday morning, sir,” replied I.
“Good—very good; we must send for him or go to him; besides, he has the packet intrusted to the care of Miss Maitland, to whom he was executor, which proves the marriage of your father. Very strange—very strange indeed, that you should have hit upon it as you did—almost supernatural. However, all right now, my dear boy, and I congratulate you. Your father is a very strange person: he has lived like a despot among slaves all his life, and will not be thwarted, I can tell you. If you say a word in contradiction he’ll disinherit you:—terrible old tiger, I must say. If it had not been for your sake, I should have done with him long ago. He seems to think the world ought to be at his feet. Depend upon it, Japhet, there is no hurry about seeing him;—and see him you shall not, until we have every proof of your identity ready to produce to him, I hope you have the bump of veneration strong, Japhet, and plenty of filial duty, or you will be kicked out of the house in a week. Damn me, if he didn’t call me an old thief of a lawyer.”
“Indeed, sir,” replied I, laughing; “I must apologise to you for my father’s conduct.”
“Never mind, Japhet; I don’t care about a trifle; but why don’t you ask after your friends?”
“I have longed so to do, sir,” replied I. “Lord Windermear—”
“Is quite well, and will be most happy to see you.”
“Lady de Clare, and her daughter—”
“Lady de Clare has entered into society again, and her daughter, as you call her—your Fleta, alias Cecilia de Clare—is the belle of the metropolis. But now, sir, as I have answered all your interrogatories, and satisfied you upon the most essential points, will you favour me with a narrative of your adventures, (for adventures I am sure you must have had,) since you ran away from us all in that ungrateful manner.”
“Most certainly, sir, I will; and, as you say, I have had adventures. But it really will be a long story.”
“Then we’ll dine here, and pass the evening together—so that’s settled.”
Part 3—Chapter XVII.
In which I am let into more Particulars relative to my Father’s History.
I dismissed the coach, while Mr Masterton gave his orders for dinner, and we then turned the key of the door to avoid intrusion, and I commenced. It was nearly dinner-time before I had finished my story.
“Well, you really appear to be born for getting into scrapes, and getting out of them again in a miraculous way,” observed Mr Masterton. “Your life would make a novel.”
“It would indeed, sir,” replied I. “I only hope, like all novels, it will wind up well.”
“So do I; but dinner’s ready, Japhet, and after dinner we’ll talk the matter over again, for there are some points upon which I require some explanation.”
We sat down to dinner, and when we had finished, and the table had been cleared, we drew to the fire, with our bottle of wine. Mr Masterton stirred the fire, called for his slippers, and then crossing his legs over the fender, resumed the subject.
“Japhet, I consider it most fortunate that we have met, previous to your introduction to your father. You have so far to congratulate yourself, that your family is undeniably good, there being, as you know, an Irish peerage in it; of which, however, you have no chance, as the present earl has a numerous offspring. You are also fortunate as far as money is concerned, as I have every reason to believe that your father is a very rich man, and, of course, you are his only child; but I must now prepare you to meet with a very different person than perhaps the fond anticipations of youth may have led you to expect. Your father has no paternal feelings that I can discover; he has wealth, and he wishes to leave it—he has therefore sought you out. But he is despotic, violent, and absurd; the least opposition to his will makes him furious, and I am sorry to add, that I am afraid that he is very mean. He suffered severely when young from poverty, and his own father was almost as authoritative and unforgiving as himself. And now I will state how it was that you were left at the Asylum when an infant. Your grandfather had procured for your father a commission in the army, and soon afterwards procured him a lieutenancy. He ordered him to marry a young lady of large fortune, whom he had never seen, and sent for him for that purpose. I understand that she was very beautiful, and had your father seen her, it is probable he would have made no objection; but he very foolishly sent a peremptory refusal, for which he was dismissed for ever. In a short time afterwards your father fell in love with a young lady of great personal attractions, and supposed to possess a large fortune. To deceive her, he pretended to be the heir to the earldom, and, after a hasty courtship, they ran off, and were married. When they compared notes, which they soon did, it was discovered that, on his side, he had nothing but the pay of a subaltern, and on hers, that she had not one shilling. Your father stormed, and called his wife an impostor; she recriminated, and the second morning after the marriage was passed in tears on her side, and oaths, curses, and revilings on his. The lady, however, appeared the more sensible party of the two. Their marriage was not known, she had run away on a pretence to visit a relative, and it was actually supposed in the county town where she resided, that such was the case. ‘Why should we quarrel in this way?’ observed she. ‘You, Edmund, wished to marry a fortune, and not me—I may plead guilty to the same duplicity. We have made a mistake; but it is not too late. It is supposed that I am on a visit to —, and that you are on furlough for a few days. Did you confide your secret to any of your brother officers?’ ‘Not one,’ muttered your father. ‘Well, then, let us part as if nothing had happened, and nobody will be the wiser. We are equally interested in keeping the secret. Is it agreed?’—Your father immediately consented. He accompanied your mother to the house at —, where she was expected, and she framed a story for her delay, by having met such a very polite young man. Your father returned to his regiment, and thus did they like two privateers, who, when they meet and engage, as soon as they find out their mistake, hoist their colours, and sheer off by mutual consent.”
“I can’t say much for my mother’s affection or delicacy,” observed I.
“The less you say the better, Japhet—however, that is your father’s story. And how to proceed. It appears that, about two months afterwards, your father received a letter from your mother, acquainting him that their short intercourse had been productive of certain results, and requesting that he would take the necessary steps to provide for the child, and avoid exposure, or that she would be obliged to confess her marriage. By what means they contrived to avoid exposure until the period of her confinement, I know not, but your father states that the child was born in a house in London, and, by agreement, was instantly put into his hands; that he, with the consent of his wife, left you at the door of the Asylum, with the paper and the bank note, from which you received the name of Newland. At the time, he had no idea of reclaiming you himself; but the mother had; for, heartless as she appears to have been, yet a mother must feel for her child. Your father’s regiment was then ordered out to the East Indies, and he was rapidly promoted for his gallantry and good conduct during the war in the Mysore territory. Once only has he returned home on furlough, and then he did make inquiries after you; not, it appears, with a view of finding you out on his own account, but from a promise which he made your mother.”
“My mother! what, have they met since?”
“Yes; your mother went out to India on speculation, passing off as a single girl, and was very well married there, I was going to say; however, she committed a very splendid bigamy.”
“Good heavens! how totally destitute of principle!”
“Your father asserts that your mother was a freethinker, Japhet; her father had made her one; without religion a woman has no stay. Your father was in the up country during the time that your mother arrived, and was married to one of the council of Calcutta. Your father says that they met at a ball at Government House. She was still a very handsome woman, and much admired. When your father recognised her, and was told that she was lately married to the honourable Mr —, he was quite electrified, and would have quitted the room; but she had perceived him, and walking up to him with the greatest coolness, claimed him as an old acquaintance in England, and afterwards they often met, but she never adverted to what had passed between them, until the time for his departure to England on leave, and she then sent for him, and begged that he would make some inquiries after you, Japhet. He did so, and you know the result. On his return to India he found that your mother had been carried off by the prevailing pestilence. At that period, your father was not rich, but he was then appointed to the chief command in the Carnatic, and reaped a golden harvest in return for his success and bravery. It appears, as far as I could obtain it from him, that as long as your mother was alive, he felt no interest about you; but her death, and the subsequent wealth which poured upon him, have now induced him to find out an heir, to whom it may be bequeathed.
“Such, Japhet, are the outlines of your father’s history; and I must point out that he has no feelings of affection for you at present. The conduct of your mother is ever before him, and if it were not that he wishes an heir, I should almost say that his feelings are those of dislike. You may create an interest in his heart, it is true: and he may be gratified by your personal appearance; but you will have a very difficult task, as you will have to submit to his caprices and fancies, and I am afraid that, to a high spirit like yours, they will be almost unbearable.”
“Really, sir, I begin to feel that the fondest anticipations are seldom realised, and almost to wish that I had not been sought for by my father. I was happy and contented, and now I do not see any chance of having to congratulate myself on the change.”
“On one or two points I also wish to question you. It appears that you have entered into the sect denominated Quakers. Tell me candidly, do you subscribe heartily and sincerely to their doctrines? And I was going to add, is it your intention to remain with them? I perceive much difficulty in all this.”
“The tenets of the sect I certainly do believe to be more in accordance with the Christian religion than any other; and I have no hesitation in asserting, from my knowledge of those who belong to this sect, that they, generally speaking, lead better lives. There are some points connected with their worship, which, at first, I considered ridiculous: the feeling has, however, worn off. As to their quaint manner of speaking, that has been grossly exaggerated. Their dress is a part of their religion.”
“Why so, Japhet?”
“I can reply to you in the words of Susannah Temple, when I made the same interrogatory. ‘You think the peculiarity of our dress is an outward form which is not required. It was put on to separate us from others, and as a proof of our sincerity; but still, the discarding of the dress is a proof of sincerity. We consider, that to admire the person is vain, and our creed is humility. It is therefore an outward and visible sign, that we would act up to those tenets which we profess. It is not all who wear the dress who are Quakers in heart or conduct; but we know that when it is put aside, the tenets of our persuasion are at the same time renounced, therefore do we consider it essential. I do not mean to say but that the heart may be as pure, and the faith continue as steadfast, without such signs outwardly, but it is a part of our creed, and we must not choose, but either reject all or none.’”
“Very well argued by the little Quakeress; and now Japhet, I should like to put another question to you. Are you very much attached to this young puritan?”
“I will not deny but that I am. I love her sincerely.”
“Does your love carry you so far, that you would, for her sake, continue a Quaker, and marry her?”
“I have asked myself that question at least a hundred times during the last twenty-four hours, and I cannot decide. If she would dress as others do, and allow me to do the same, I would marry her to-morrow; whether I shall ever make up my mind to adhere to the persuasion, and live and die a Quaker for her sake, is quite another matter—but I am afraid not—I am too worldly-minded. The fact is, I am in a very awkward position with respect to her. I have never acknowledged my affection, or asked for a return, but she knows I love her, and I know that she loves me.”
“Like all vain boys, you flatter yourself.”
“I leave you to judge, sir,” replied I, repeating to him our parting tête-à-tête, and how I had returned, and found her in tears.
“All that certainly is very corroborative evidence; but tell me, Japhet, do you think she loves you well enough to abandon all for your sake?”
“No, nor ever will, sir, she is too high-principled, too high-minded. She might suffer greatly, but she never would swerve from what she thought was right.”
“She must be a fine character, Japhet, but you will be in a dilemma: indeed, it appears to me, that your troubles are now commencing instead of ending, and that you would have been much happier where you were, than you will be by being again brought out into the world. Your prospect is not over-cheerful. You have an awkward father to deal with: you will be under a strong check, I’ve a notion, and I am afraid you will find that, notwithstanding you will be once more received into society, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.”
“I am afraid you are right, sir,” replied I, “but at all events, it will be something gained, to be acknowledged to the world by a father of good family, whatever else I may have to submit to. I have been the sport of Fortune all my life, and probably she has not yet done playing with me; but it is late, and I will now wish you good night.”
“Good night, Japhet; if I have any intelligence I will let you know. Lady de Clare’s address is Number 13, Park Street. You will, of course, go there as soon as you can.”
“I will, sir, after I have written my letters to my friends at Reading.”
Part 3—Chapter XVIII.
I am a little jealous, and, like the immortal William Bottom, inclined to enact more Parts than one—With a big Effort my hankering after Bigamy is mastered by Mr Masterton—And by my own good Sense.
I returned home to reflect upon what Mr Masterton had told me, and I must say that I was not very well pleased with his various information. His account of my mother, although she was no more, distressed me, and, from the character which he gave of my father, I felt convinced that my happiness would not be at all increased by my having finally attained the long-desired object of my wishes. Strange to say, I had no sooner discovered my father, but I wished that he had never turned up; and when I compared the peaceful and happy state of existence which I had lately enjoyed, with the prospects of what I had in future to submit to, I bitterly repented that the advertisement had been seen by Timothy; still, on one point, I was peculiarly anxious, without hardly daring to anatomise my feelings; it was relative to Cecilia de Clare, and what Mr Masterton had mentioned in the course of our conversation. The next morning I wrote to Timothy and to Mr Cophagus, giving them a short detail of what I had been informed by Mr Masterton, and expressing a wish, which I then really did feel, that I had never been summoned away from them.
Having finished my letters, I set off to Park Street, to call upon Lady de Clare and Cecilia. It was rather early, but the footman who opened the door recognised me, and I was admitted upon his own responsibility. It was now more than eighteen months since I had quitted their house at Richmond, and I was very anxious to know what reception I might have. I followed the servant up stairs, and when he opened the door walked in, as my name was announced.
Lady de Clare rose in haste; so did Cecilia, and so did a third person, whom I had not expected to have met—Harcourt. “Mr Newland,” exclaimed Lady de Clare, “this is indeed unexpected.” Cecilia also came forward, blushing to the forehead. Harcourt held back, as if waiting for the advances to be made on my side. On the whole, I never felt more awkwardly, and I believe my feelings were reciprocated by the whole party. I was evidently de trop.
“Do you know Mr Harcourt?” at last said Lady de Clare.
“If it is the Mr Harcourt I once knew,” replied I, “I certainly do.”
“Believe me it is the same, Newland,” said Harcourt, turning to me and offering his hand, which I took with pleasure.
“It is a long while since we met,” observed Cecilia, who felt it necessary to say something, but, at the same time, did not like to enter upon my affairs before Harcourt.
“It is, Miss de Clare,” replied I, for I was not exactly pleased at my reception; “but I have been fortunate since I had the pleasure of seeing you last.”
Cecilia and her mother looked earnestly, as much as to say, in what?—but did not like to ask the question.
“There is no one present who is not well acquainted with my history,” observed I, “that is, until the time that I left you and Lady de Clare, and I have no wish to create mystery. I have at last discovered my father.”
“I hope we are to congratulate you, Mr Newland,” said Lady de Clare.
“As far as respectability and family are concerned, I certainly have no reason to be ashamed,” replied I. “He is the brother of an earl, and a general in the army. His name I will not mention until I have seen him, and I am formally and openly acknowledged. I have also the advantage of being an only son, and if I am not disinherited, heir to considerable property,” continued I, smiling sarcastically. “Perhaps I may now be better received than I have been as Japhet Newland the Foundling: but, Lady de Clare, I am afraid that I have intruded unseasonably, and will now take my leave. Good morning;” and without waiting for a reply, I made a hasty retreat, and gained the door.
Flushed with indignation, I had nearly gained the bottom of the stairs, when I heard a light footstep behind me, and my arm was caught by Cecilia de Clare. I turned round, and she looked me reproachfully in the face, as the tear stood in her eye. “What have we done, Japhet, that you should treat us in this manner?” said she with emotion.
“Miss de Clare,” replied I, “I have no reproaches to make. I perceived that my presence was not welcome, and I would no further intrude.”
“Are you then so proud, now that you have found out that you are well born, Japhet?”
“I am much too proud to intrude where I am not wished for, Miss de Clare. As Japhet Newland, I came here to see the Fleta of former days. When I assume my real name, I shall always be most happy of an introduction to the daughter of Lady de Clare.”
“Oh! how changed,” exclaimed she, fixing her large blue eyes upon me.
“Prosperity changes us all, Miss de Clare. I wish you a very good morning;” and I turned away, and crossed the hall to the door.
As I went out I could not help looking back, and I perceived that Cecilia’s handkerchief was held to her eyes, as she slowly mounted the stairs. I walked home to the Piazza in no very pleasant humour. I was angry and disgusted at the coolness of my reception. I thought myself ill used, and treated with ingratitude. “So much for the world,” said I, as I sat down in my apartment, and spun my hat on the table. “She has been out two seasons, and is no longer the same person. Yet how lovely she has grown! But why this change—and why was Harcourt there? Could he have prejudiced them against me? Very possibly.” While these ideas were running in my mind, and I was making comparisons between Cecilia de Clare and Susannah Temple—not much in favour of the former—and looking forward prospectively to the meeting with my father, the doubts as to my reception in society colouring everything with the most sombre tints, the door opened, and in walked Harcourt, announced by the waiter.
“A chair for Mr Harcourt,” said I to the waiter, with formality.
“Newland,” said Harcourt, “I come for two reasons: in the first place I am commissioned by the ladies to assure you—”
“I beg your pardon, Mr Harcourt, for interrupting you, but I require no ambassador from the ladies in question. They may make you their confidant if they please, but I am not at all inclined to do the same. Explanation, after what I witnessed and felt this morning, is quite unnecessary. I surrender all claims upon either Lady de Clare or her daughter, if I ever was so foolhardy as to imagine that I had any. The first reason of your visit it is therefore useless to proceed with. May I ask the other reason which has procured me this honour?”
“I hardly know, Mr Newland,” replied Harcourt, colouring deeply, “whether after what you have now said I ought to proceed with the second—it related to myself.”
“I am all attention, Mr Harcourt,” replied I bowing politely.
“It was to say, Mr Newland, that I should have taken the earliest opportunity after my recovery, had you not disappeared so strangely, to have expressed my sorrow for my conduct towards you, and to have acknowledged that I had been deservedly punished: more perhaps by my own feelings of remorse, than by the dangerous wound I had received by your hand. I take even this opportunity, although not apparently a favourable one, of expressing what I consider it my duty, as a gentleman who has wronged another, to express. I certainly was going to add more, but there is so little chance of its being well received, that I had better defer it to some future opportunity. The time may come, and I certainly trust it will come, when I may be allowed to prove to you that I am not deserving of the coolness with which I am now received. Mr Newland, with every wish for your happiness, I will now take my leave; but I must say, it is with painful sentiments, as I feel that the result of this interview, will be the cause of great distress to those who are bound to you not only by gratitude, but sincere regard.”
Harcourt then bowed, and quitted the room.
“It’s all very well,” muttered I, “but I know the world, and am not to be soothed down by a few fine words. I trust that they will be sorry for their conduct, but see me again inside their doors they will not;” and I sat down, trying to feel satisfied with myself—but I was not; I felt that I had acted harshly, to say no more. I ought to have listened to an explanation sent by Cecilia and her mother, after her coming down stairs to expostulate. They were under great obligations to me, and by my quick resentment, I rendered the obligations more onerous. It was unkind of me—and I wished that Harcourt had not left the room. As for his conduct, I tried to find fault with it, but could not. It was gentlemanly and feeling. The fact was, I was in a very bad humour, and could not at the time discover the reason, which was neither more nor less than that I was more jealous of finding Harcourt so intimate at Lady de Clare’s, than I was at the unpalatable reception which I had me with. The waiter came in, and brought me a note from Mr Masterton.
“I have this morning received a summons from your father, who returned, it appears, two days ago, and is now at the Adelphi Hotel. I am sorry to say, that stepping out of his carriage when travelling, he missed his footing, and snapped his tendon Achilles. He is laid up on a couch, and, as you may suppose, his amiability is not increased by the accident, and the pain attending it. As he has requested me to bring forward immediate evidence as to your identity, and the presence of Mr Cophagus is necessary, I propose that we start for Reading to-morrow at nine o’clock. I have a curiosity to go down there, and having a leisure day or two, it will be a relaxation. I wish to see my old acquaintance Timothy, and your shop. Answer by bearer.
“J. Masterton.”
I wrote a few lines, informing Mr Masterton that I would be with him at the appointed hour, and then sat down to my solitary meal. How different from when I was last at this hotel! Now I knew nobody. I had to regain my footing in society, and that could only be accomplished by being acknowledged by my father; and, as soon as that was done, I would call upon Lord Windermear, who would quickly effect what I desired. The next morning I was ready at nine o’clock, and set off with post horses, with Mr Masterton, in his own carriage. I told him what had occurred the day before, and how disgusted I was at my reception.
“Upon my word, Japhet, I think you are wrong,” replied the old gentleman; “and if you had not told me of your affection for Miss Temple, to see whom, by-the-by, I confess to be one of the chief motives of my going down with you, I should almost suppose that you were blinded by jealousy. Does it not occur to you, that if Mr Harcourt was admitted to the ladies at such an early hour, there was preference shown him in that quarter? And now I recollect that I heard something about it. Harcourt’s elder brother died, and he’s come into the property, and I heard somebody say that he would in all probability succeed in gaining the handsomest girl in London with a large fortune—that it was said to be a match. Now, if such be the case, and you broke in upon a quiet reunion between two young people about to be united, almost without announcement, and so unexpectedly, after a lapse of so long a time, surely you cannot be surprised at there being a degree of confusion and restraint—more especially after what had passed between Harcourt and you. Depend upon it, that was the cause of it. Had Lady de Clare and her daughter been alone, your reception would have been very different; indeed, Cecilia’s following you down stairs proves that it was not from coolness towards you; and Harcourt calling upon you, and the conversation which took place, is another proof that you have been mistaken.”
“I never viewed it in that light, certainly, sir,” observed I. “I merely perceived that I was considered intrusive, and finding in the company one who had treated me ill, and had been my antagonist in the field, I naturally supposed that he had prejudiced them against me. I hope I may be wrong; but I have seen so much of the world, young as I am, that I have become very suspicious.”
“Then discard suspicion as fast as you can; it will only make you unhappy, and not prevent your being deceived. If you are suspicious, you will have the constant fear of deception hanging over you, which poisons existence.”
After these remarks I remained silent for some time; I was analysing my own feelings, and I felt that I had acted in a very absurd manner. The fact was, that one of my castle buildings had been, that I was to marry Fleta as soon as I had found my own father, and this it was which had actuated me, almost without my knowing it. I felt jealous of Harcourt, and that, without being in love with Miss de Clare, but actually passionately fond of another person; I felt as if I could have married her without loving her, and that I could give up Susannah Temple, whom I did love, rather than that a being, whom I considered as almost of my own creation, should herself presume to fall in love, or that another should dare to love her, until I had made up my mind whether I should take her myself; and this after so long an absence, and their having given up all hopes of ever seeing me again. The reader may smile at the absurdity, still more at the selfishness of this feeling; so did I, when I had reflected upon it, and I despised myself for my vanity and folly.
“What are you thinking of, Japhet?” observed Mr Masterton, tired with my long abstraction.
“That I have been making a most egregious fool of myself, sir,” replied I, “with respect to the de Clares.”
“I did not say so, Japhet; but to tell you the truth, I thought something very like it. Now tell me, were you not jealous at finding her in company with Harcourt?”
“Exactly so, sir.”
“I’ll tell Susannah Temple when see I her, that she may form some idea of your constancy,” replied Mr Masterton, smiling. “Why what a dog in the manger you must be—you can’t marry them both. Still, under the circumstances, I can analyse the feeling—it is natural, but all that is natural is not always creditable to human nature. Let us talk a little about Susannah, and all these vagaries will be dispersed. How old is she?”
Mr Masterton plied me with so many questions relative to Susannah, that her image alone soon filled my mind, and I recovered my spirits. “I don’t know what she will say, at my being in this dress, sir,” observed I. “Had I not better change it on my arrival?”
“By no means; I’ll fight your battle—I know her character pretty well, thanks to your raving about her.”
Part 3—Chapter XIX.
Contains much learned Argument upon Broad Brims and Garments of grey—I get the best of it—The one great Wish of my Life is Granted—I meet my Father, and a cold Reception, very indicative of much After-Heat.
We arrived in good time at Reading, and, as soon as we alighted at the inn, we ordered dinner, and then walked down to the shop, where we found Timothy very busy tying down and labelling. He was delighted to see Mr Masterton; and perceiving that I had laid aside the Quaker’s dress, made no scruple of indulging in his humour, making a long face, and thee-ing and thou-ing Mr Masterton in a very absurd manner. We desired him to go to Mr Cophagus, and beg that he would allow me to bring Mr Masterton to drink tea, and afterwards to call at the inn and give us the answer. We then returned to our dinner.
“Whether they will ever make a Quaker of you, Japhet, I am very doubtful,” observed Mr Masterton, as we walked back; “but as for making one of that fellow Timothy, I’ll defy them.”
“He laughs at everything,” replied I, “and views everything in a ridiculous light—at all events, they never will make him serious.”
In the evening, we adjourned to the house of Mr Cophagus, having received a message of welcome. I entered the room first. Susannah came forward to welcome me, and then drew back, when she perceived the alteration in my apparel, colouring deeply. I passed her, and took the hand of Mrs Cophagus and her husband, and then introduced Mr Masterton.
“We hardly knew thee, Japhet,” mildly observed Mrs Cophagus.
“I did not think that outward garments would disguise me from my friends,” replied I; “but so it appeareth, for your sister hath not even greeted me in welcome.”
“I greet thee in all kindness, and all sincerity, Japhet Newland,” replied Susannah, holding out her hand. “Yet did I not imagine that, in so short a time, thou wouldst have dismissed the apparel of our persuasion, neither do I find it seemly.”
“Miss Temple,” interposed Mr Masterton, “it is to oblige those who are his sincere friends, that Mr Newland has laid aside his dress. I quarrel with no creed—everyone has a right to choose for himself, and Mr Newland has perhaps not chosen badly, in embracing your tenets. Let him continue steadfast in them. But, fair young lady, there is no creed which is perfect, and, even in yours, we find imperfection. Our religion preaches humility, and therefore we do object to his wearing the garb of pride.”
“Of pride, sayest thou? hath he not rather put off the garb of humility, and now appeareth in the garb of pride?”
“Not so, young madam: when we dress as all the world dress, we wear not the garb of pride; but when we put on a dress different from others, that distinguishes us from others, then we show our pride, and the worst of pride, for it is the hypocritical pride which apes humility. It is the Pharisee of the Scriptures, who preaches in high places, and sounds forth his charity to the poor; not the humility of the Publican, who says, ‘Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner.’ Your apparel of pretended humility is the garb of pride, and for that reason have we insisted that he discards it, when with us. His tenets we interfere not with. There can be no religion in dress; and that must indeed be weak in itself, which requires dress for its support.”
Susannah was astonished at this new feature of the case, so aptly put by the old lawyer. Mrs Cophagus looked at her husband, and Cophagus pinched my arm, evidently agreeing with him. When Mr Masterton had finished speaking, Susannah waited a few seconds, and then replied, “It becomes not one so young and weak as I am, to argue with thee, who art so much my senior. I cannot cavil at opinions which, if not correct, at least are founded on the holy writings; but I have been otherwise instructed.”
“Then let us drop the argument, Miss Susannah, and let me tell you, that Japhet wished to resume his Quaker’s dress, and I would not permit him. If there is any blame, it is to be laid to me; and it’s no use being angry with an old man like myself.”
“I have no right to be angry with anyone,” replied Susannah.
“But you were angry with me, Susannah,” interrupted I.
“I cannot say that it was anger, Japhet Newland: I hardly know what the feeling might have been; but I was wrong, and I must request thy forgiveness;” and Susannah held out her hand.
“Now you must forgive me too, Miss Temple,” said old Masterton, and Susannah laughed against her wishes.
The conversation then became general. Mr Masterton explained to Mr Cophagus what he required of him, and Mr Cophagus immediately acceded. It was arranged that he should go to town by the mail the next day. Mr Masterton talked a great deal about my father, and gave his character in its true light, as he considered it would be advantageous to me so to do. He then entered into conversation upon a variety of topics, and was certainly very amusing. Susannah laughed very heartily before the evening was over, and Mr Masterton retired to the hotel, for I had resolved to sleep in my own bed.
I walked home with Mr Masterton: I then returned to the house, and found them all in the parlour. Mrs Cophagus was expressing her delight at the amusement she had received, when I entered with a grave face. “I wish that I had not left you,” said I to Mrs Cophagus; “I am afraid to meet my father; he will exact the most implicit obedience. What am I to do? Must not I obey him?”
“In all things lawful,” replied Susannah, “most certainly, Japhet.”
“In all things lawful, Susannah! now tell me, in the very case of my apparel: Mr Masterton says, that he never will permit me to wear the dress. What am I to do?”
“Thou hast thy religion and thy Bible for thy guide, Japhet.”
“I have; and in the Bible I find written on tablets of stone by the prophet of God, ‘Honour thy father and thy mother;’ there is a positive commandment: but I find no commandment to wear this or that dress. What think you?” continued I, appealing to them all.
“I should bid thee honour thy father, Japhet,” replied Mrs Cophagus, “and you, Susannah—”
“I shall bid thee good night, Japhet.”
At this reply we all laughed, and I perceived there was a smile on Susannah’s face as she walked away. Mrs Cophagus followed her, laughing as she went, and Cophagus and I were alone.
“Well, Japhet—see old gentleman—kiss—shake hands—and blessing—and so on.”
“Yes, sir,” replied I; “but if he treats me ill I shall probably come down here again. I am afraid that Susannah is not very well pleased with me.”
“Pooh, nonsense—wife knows all—die for you—Japhet, do as you please—dress yourself—dress her—any dress—no dress like Eve—sly puss—won’t lose you—all right—and so on.”
I pressed Mr Cophagus to tell me all he knew, and I found from him that his wife had questioned Susannah soon after my departure, had found her weeping, and that she had gained from her the avowal of her ardent affection for me. This was all I wanted, and I wished him good night, and went to bed happy. I had an interview with Susannah Temple before I left the next morning, and, although I never mentioned love, had every reason to be satisfied. She was kind and affectionate; spoke to me in her usual serious manner, warned me against the world, acknowledged that I should have great difficulties to surmount, and even made much allowance for my peculiar situation. She dared not advise, but she would pray for me. There was a greater show of interest and confidence towards me than I had ever yet received from her: when I parted from her I said, “Dear Susannah, whatever change may take place in my fortunes or in my dress, believe me, my heart shall not be changed, and I shall ever adhere to those principles which have been instilled into me since I have been in your company.”
This was a phrase which admitted of a double meaning, and she replied, “I should wish to see thee perfect, Japhet; but there is no perfection now on earth; be therefore as perfect as you can.”
“God bless you, Susannah.”
“May the blessing of the Lord be on you always, Japhet,” replied she.
I put my arm round her waist, and slightly pressed her to my bosom. She gently disengaged herself, and her large eyes glistened with tears as she left the room. In a quarter of an hour I was with Mr Masterton on the road to London.
“Japhet,” said the old gentleman, “I will say that you have been very wise in your choice, and that your little Quaker is a most lovely creature: I am in love with her myself, and I think that she is far superior in personal attractions to Cecilia de Clare.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes, indeed; her face is more classical, and her complexion is unrivalled; as far as my present knowledge and experience go, she is an emblem of purity.”
“Her mind, sir, is as pure as her person.”
“I believe it; she has a strong mind, and will think for herself.”
“There, sir, is, I am afraid, the difficulty; she will not yield a point in which she thinks she is right, not even for her love for me.”
“I agree with you that she will not, and I admire her for it; but, Japhet, she will yield to conviction, and depend upon it, she will abandon the outward observances of her persuasion. Did you observe what a spoke I put in your wheel last night, when I stated that outward forms were pride. Leave that to work, and I’ll answer for the consequences: she will not long wear that Quaker’s dress. How beautiful she would be if she dressed like other people! I think I see her now entering a ball-room.”
“But what occasions you to think she will abandon her persuasion?”
“I do not say that she will abandon it, nor do I wish her to do it, nor do I wish you to do it, Japhet. There is much beauty and much perfection in the Quaker’s creed. All that requires to be abandoned are the dress and the ceremonies of the meetings, which are both absurdities. Recollect, that Miss Temple has been brought up as a Quaker; she has, from the exclusiveness of the sect, known no other form of worship, and never heard any opposition to that which has been inculcated; but let her once or twice enter the Established Church, hear its beautiful ritual, and listen to a sound preacher. Let her be persuaded to do that, which cannot be asking her to do wrong, and then let her think and act for herself, and my word for it, when she draws the comparison between what she has then heard and the nonsense occasionally uttered in the Quaker’s conventicle, by those who fancy themselves inspired, she will herself feel that, although the tenets of her persuasion may be more in accordance with true Christianity than those of other sects, the outward forms and observances are imperfect. I trust to her own good sense.”
“You make me very happy by saying so.”
“Well, that is my opinion of her, and if she proves me to be correct, hang me if I don’t think I shall adopt her.”
“What do you think of Mrs Cophagus, sir?”
“I think she is no more a Quaker in her heart than I am. She is a lively, merry, kind-hearted creature, and would have no objection to appear in feathers and diamonds to-morrow.”
“Well, sir, I can tell you that Mr Cophagus still sighs after his blue cotton net pantaloons and Hessian boots.”
“More fool he! but, however, I am glad of it, for it gives me an idea which I shall work upon by-and-by; at present we have this eventful meeting between you and your father to occupy us.”
We arrived in town in time for dinner, which Mr Masterton had ordered at his chambers. As the old gentleman was rather tired with his two days’ travelling, I wished him good night at an early hour.
“Recollect, Japhet, we are to be at the Adelphi hotel to-morrow at one o’clock—come in time.”
I called upon Mr Masterton at the time appointed on the ensuing day, and we drove to the hotel in which my father had located himself. On our arrival, we were ushered into a room on the ground floor, where we found Mr Cophagus and two of the governors of the Foundling Hospital.
“Really, Mr Masterton,” said one of the latter gentlemen, “one would think that we were about to have an audience with a sovereign prince, and, instead of conferring favours, were about to receive them. My time is precious: I ought to have been in the city this half hour, and here is this old nabob keeping us waiting as if we were petitioners.”
Mr Masterton laughed and said, “Let us all go up stairs, and not wait to be sent for.”
He called one of the waiters, and desired him to announce them to General De Benyon. They then followed the waiter, leaving me alone. I must say, that I was a little agitated; I heard the door open above, and then an angry growl like that of a wild beast; the door closed again and all was quiet. “And this,” thought I, “is the result of all my fond anticipations, of my ardent wishes, of my enthusiastic search. Instead of expressing anxiety to receive his son, he litigiously requires proofs, and more proofs, when he has received every satisfactory proof already. They say his temper is violent beyond control, and that submission irritates instead of appeasing him: what then if I resent? I have heard that people of that description are to be better met with their own weapons:—suppose I try it;—but no, I have no right:—I will however be firm, and keep my temper under every circumstance: I will show him, at least, that his son has the spirit and the feelings of a gentleman.”
As these thoughts passed in my mind the door opened, and Mr Masterton requested me to follow him. I obeyed with a palpitating heart; and when I had gained the landing-place up stairs, Mr Masterton took my hand and led me into the presence of my long-sought-for and much-dreaded parent. I may as well describe him and the whole tableau. The room was long and narrow, and, at the farther end, was a large sofa, on which was seated my father with his injured leg reposing on it, his crutches propped against the wall. On each side of him were two large poles and stands, each with a magnificent macaw. Next to the macaws were two native servants, arrayed in their muslin dresses, with their arms folded. A hookah was in advance of the table before the sofa; it was magnificently wrought in silver, and the snake passed under the table, so that the tube was within my honoured father’s reach. On one side of the room sat the two governors of the Foundling Hospital, on the other was seated Mr Cophagus in his Quaker’s dress; the empty chair next to him had been occupied by Mr Masterton. I looked at my father: he was a man of great size, apparently six feet three or four inches, and stout in proportion, without being burdened with fat: he was gaunt, broad-shouldered and muscular, and I think, must have weighed seventeen or eighteen stone. His head was in proportion to his body, and very large; so were all his features upon the same grand scale. His complexion was of a brownish-yellow, and his hair of a snowy white. He wore his whiskers very large and joined together under the throat, and these, which were also white, from the circle which they formed round his face, and contrasting with the colour of his skin, gave his tout ensemble much more the appearance of a royal Bengal tiger than a gentleman. General De Benyon saw Mr Masterton leading me forward to within a pace or two of the table before the general.—“Allow me the pleasure of introducing your son, Japhet.”
There was no hand extended to welcome me. My father fixed his proud grey eyes upon me for a moment, and then turned to the governors of the hospital.
“Is this the person, gentlemen, whom you received as an infant and brought up as Japhet Newland?”
The governors declared I was the same person; that they had bound me to Mr Cophagus, and had seen me more than once since I quitted the Asylum.
“Is this the Japhet Newland whom you received from these gentlemen and brought up to your business?”
“Yea, and verily—I do affirm the same—smart lad—good boy—and so on.”
“I will not take a Quaker’s affirmation—will you take your oath, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Cophagus, forgetting his Quakership; “take oath—bring Bible—kiss book—and so on.”
“You, then, as a Quaker, have no objection to swear to the identity of this person?”
“Swear,” cried Cophagus, “yes, swear—swear now—not Japhet!—I’m damned—go to hell—and so on.”
The other parties present could not help laughing at this explosion from Cophagus, neither could I. Mr Masterton then asked the general if he required any more proofs.
“No,” replied the general discourteously; and speaking in Hindostanee to his attendants, they walked to the door and opened it. The hint was taken, Mr Masterton saying to the others in an ironical tone, “After so long a separation, gentlemen, it must be natural that the general should wish to be left alone, that he may give vent to his paternal feelings.”